Internal Monologues
by Wyrmskyld
Summary: What are your favourite HP characters really thinking? No spoilers, because I haven't read HBP yet. Rating varies from chapter to chapter, but gets no worse than references to suicide. Now with new and improved slash!
1. Little Miss Perfect

_Originally published as one-shot Little Miss Perfect, which inspired this little series of one-shots. This fic began as me being depressed and trying to purge some angst by writing in my journal. And at some point I realized that with a few changes it could apply to Hermione. So here it is—the internal monologue of a brainy know-it-all, as told by a brainy know-it-all._

What do you see when you look at me? Do you see what everyone else does? "Look, there she is, the cleverest witch of her age! Every parent's wet dream. She's friends with Harry Potter! Rumor has it they're dating. No, I heard she's dating Viktor Krum, the quidditch star! She's so lucky, I wish I could be like her. Clever, pretty when she puts her mind to it, with two of the most famous wizards in the world in love with her."

Yeah, right. Do you really think it's like that? It's not. Sure, I'm friends with Harry. Just friends. Not that I deserve a friend like him. I'm sure the only reason he doesn't treat me like something he scraped off the bottom of his shoe is that he's just too fucking nice. The guy loves everyone. He even loves people he hates, and look what it's gotten him! Dead parents, dead godfather, family that hates him, and me for a friend.

As for Viktor, he wants to date me. He keeps asking me for dates. He says he loves me. He's wrong. The only reason he ever took a second look at me is because I don't look at him and think 'quidditch.' Viktor's never seen the real me. The me that stays hidden. He just sees a clever, perfect façade of a witch. The girl who gets perfect grades and never talks back to teachers and always knows the answers and does everything right. I hate her. She's smothering me to death.

The only people who know the real me are Harry and Ron. And maybe Ginny. The real me breaks out of the chains every once in awhile. Like that time in 3rd year. When I punched Draco Malfoy. Yeah, that was me. Or that time I blew up at Trelawney and told her exactly what I thought of her fucking class. Well, not exactly. I didn't use all the words I had running around in my head. Stupid bint.

Oh, yeah. I'm really fucking perfect. The guy I'm in love with only thinks of me as a friend. Hell, most of the time he doesn't even realize I'm a girl. Stupid bastard. I don't mean that, really. I love him, after all. His freckles, the way he works so hard to make me laugh, his complete and total loyalty to his friends. I even love the fact that he's too bloody dense to see me standing in front of him and realize I've been staring at him over my book, wondering what that fiery hair would feel like in my hands. He's got the most gorgeous little crease between his eyebrows right now as he concentrates on his potions essay. Any minute now he'll come over to me and ask for help. Why? Because I'm clever, and I get perfect grades, and I'm his friend who's always ready to help him.

Dammit, I don't want to be perfect anymore! I want to stop caring what everyone thinks! What my parents think. I don't want to be their perfect child anymore with her perfect grades who never breaks the rules. I can't let my grades slip, because my parents will be disappointed. I don't want to disappoint them, but I'm so fucking tired of living up to their expectations. Everyone expects me to be so perfect and clever and brave. After all, I'm in Gryffindor. I have to be bloody courageous….

That's what they think. I'm not even brave enough to go through with a simple task. I had the knife in my hand, and a silencing spell on my bed. No one would have heard me, and the pillow would have absorbed most of the blood. Nobody would have known I was dead for hours, maybe days. All I had to do was draw the knife along the veins in my wrists. I already had the note written, even. I couldn't do it, though. Two simple cuts and I wouldn't have to worry about living up to their expectations anymore. I couldn't do it. I was too afraid of death. What if there are people there after you're dead who expect things of you? What would the dead expect of me? I have enough trouble with what the living want. I'm such a fucking coward I can't do the one useful task I've ever done in my life because of a what if!

I'm trapped inside my own body. Inside the façade I made myself. Yes, ironic, isn't it? I made this prison, and now I have to live in it, because if anyone ever saw the real me they'd run screaming. Maybe I should just stop caring so much. And stop pretending to care. Maybe then it would be easier. If I didn't care about people. If I didn't care that everyone would leave me. I'm so afraid of not being perfect that it's tearing me to pieces, but maybe what I'm really afraid of is that if I'm not perfect, I'll be alone.

Would my friends really leave me? I don't know. Here he comes to ask for help on the essay. "Sure, Ron. I'll help you. No, it's no trouble at all. I wasn't really even reading my book, just sitting here thinking. I finished all my homework hours ago. I hope I did alright on that History test this morning. I think I might have put June 22 instead of June 23…"

_I've no idea who I'm going to do for my third chapter. Leave your thoughts. _


	2. The False Oracle

_Okay… This is kind of a companion fic to Little Miss Perfect, but really they have almost nothing to do with each other. Everyone who's read Little Miss Perfect seems to like it, so… I'm making it into a series. The inner thoughts of the people of Hogwarts. Let me know what you think. I have no idea who I'm doing next. Give me suggestions in your reviews._

I am a fraud.

Yes, that's right. I'm a complete and utter fraud. What's more, I'm a _bad_ fraud. Because everyone knows I'm a fraud. Well, almost everyone. Patil and Brown haven't figured it out. There are a few others. But that's not the point. If you're going to be a fraud, you should be able to fool the majority. I can't even fool myself.

Oh, I've tried. Merlin knows I've tried. I'm the descendant of Cassandra, for crying out loud! My mother was one of the greatest seers of her day! All of my family have been seers… Why can't I See anything? I've done everything right. Everything by the book. The right incense, the right equipment, the right frame of mind, the right style of living. But still my Inner Eye won't open… and I've forsaken my outer eyes for it. I'm blind, and nobody realizes it. And I'm teaching others to be just as blind.

Sometimes I hope. Hope that I'm wrong, and that I'm not a fraud. Dumbledore hired me, for one thing. Sure, he needed a teacher, and he's hired incompetents before, but… but. But he's never hired a long-term professor who wasn't competent, and I've been here for… oh, my… almost seventeen years.

So perhaps I'm not a fraud? Or perhaps I'm an example of that old adage 'those who can, do. Those who can't, teach.' I still hope, though. I have episodes… I'll black out, and when I come to, people act strange around me. And my throat hurts. But I don't have those episodes often. I'm not sure they're not just imagination.

Maybe they are just imagination. Merlin knows I've got a vivid one. Grims in teacups. Honestly. Some predictions are easy to make, though. Just listen to the gossip going around school, et voila! You know all you need to predict that Neville Longbottom will break teacups. Add the power of suggestion, make him think it's inevitable, and you have your very own self-fulfilling prophecy. Which I suppose makes me even more of a fraud.

I wonder what would happen if I admitted it. Admitted that I'm a fraud. It's lonely when everyone laughs at you. Lonely to defend yourself when you don't even believe your defense. Who would I tell, though? Certainly not Minerva! All the other professors think I'm a fraud, too. A student? No. The ones who believe in me would be shattered, and the others would just laugh. Perhaps… with my next batch of third years I can just tone down the act?

Is it an act anymore? Or is it me? I don't know. I have nowhere to go for help. The ones who listen are blind, and the ones who have their eyes open have better things to do. I'm stuck in the image I've made for myself.

My name is Sibyll Trelawney, and I am a hopeless fraud.


	3. Ferret Thoughts

_All you really need to know about this is that it takes place between GoF and OoTP. Oh, and there's some profanity. I don't like profanity, but it's appropriate here._

I hate wizarding social functions. I might possibly be in my own private hell right now. Why did Mother insist on me being here? At least the food is halfway decent. But the people…

What's that, Mrs. Goyle? You say I'm the image of my father at my age? Why thank you. I'm so absofuckinglutely thrilled that you think I look like the albino racist who's made my life a living hell. Look at me dance with joy. Just for that compliment, I'm going to put you on my list of people I'm going to kill. Your son's already on there. Don't worry, I'll kill you first. I'm doing it in order of intelligence, after all, and you're clearly less intelligent than him. As hard as that is to imagine.

Fucking party. What the hell do we have to celebrate, anyway? Woo, Voldemort's risen again. Or are we celebrating the fact that he's been defeated by someone my age for the fourth time in as many years? I forget. Stupid people. You have NOTHING to celebrate! You're following someone who can't even kill a child and a walking advert for the dangers of Alzheimer's!

And yet the party continues. Of course, that might be because I'm too much of a coward to say my thoughts out loud. I shudder to think what Father would do… Beat me bloody at the very least. Or worse, cast the Cruciatus curse on me. He stopped using the Imperius curse when I learned how to resist it. Not that that's really so hard. Potter can do it, after all.

I almost wish I could have been friends with Potter. It would be nice to have a friend to study with, or play chess with. All Crabbe and Goyle are good for is looking intimidating. Well… looking intimidating and repeating everything I do or say to their fathers, who pass the information on to my father. Dammit, I want friends, not flunkies. I can't even get decent flunkies!

It's hard being alone. Except… I'm not really alone. I'm surrounded by people waiting for me to make a wrong step in the most complicated dance in the world—the dance of life. Everyone else gets to choose their own steps and music, though. At least up to a point. I don't have any choices.

That's not exactly true. I could choose to rebel against my father, I suppose. But is it really worth being killed? Actually, death would be preferable to one of Father's punishments.

I'm just so tired of it all. I don't particularly _like_ any of the people I go to school with, but there's got to be something more than what I have. I'm not a person, I'm a puppet. I'm dancing to Father's tune, just like I have been my entire life.

One of my earliest memories is of him sitting me down for a 'talk.' Talk. Ha. Lecture is more like it. Talk implies that there are two sides to the conversation. I was summoned to his office, and told to sit down. He put me in the most uncomfortable chair in his office. And then he started outlining what was expected of me. At the age of four, I was told what I would do with my life, and who my friends would be, and what house I'd be in when I got to Hogwarts. But the thing I remember most—more than the speech and how unfair it all seemed—was that I had to sit still in that uncomfortable chair. If I squirmed, he'd bark 'crucio!' at me. After the moment of agonizing pain was over, he'd look at me like I was a disappointment, and he'd say 'Sit still, Draco.'

Draco. Who names their kid that? Oh. Wait. The same people whose parents named them Lucius and Narcissa. Stupid question.

Father's giving me that look. Now that he knows I've seen him, he's looking at Parkinson. I'm supposed to marry her. That cow. And she's my cousin. First cousin. Isn't there a law against that or something?

If I had a choice, who would I go out with? Not a Slytherin, that's for sure. And I don't care for blondes, which leaves out most of the Hufflepuff girls. Weasley's hair is pretty, I suppose, but the freckles are a definite turnoff. Not to mention she's in love with Potter. And I can't believe he hasn't figured that out yet. Maybe one of the Patils? Yeah. And I'll bet Padma wouldn't step on my toes while we danced together.

Note to self: When the party's over, soak feet in icewater.

_Well? Good? Bad? Ugly? Review? Please?_

_**Wyrm… cut it out with the question marks or we'll cut off your chocolate priveledges.**_

_Nooo! Not my chocolate! Cuddles the chocolate My precioussss… Don't worry. We won't let the nasssty alter ego take you away from me. _

… _**Crud. Where did I put that hugme jacket?**_


	4. A Marauder Alone

_This story takes place pre-PoA. _

The loneliness is worst at the full moon. That's when we four were closest. It makes sense, really. None of us were solitary animals. Wolves and dogs have their packs, deer have their herds, and even rats live in colonies with other rats.

That's what we were to each other. The pack. The herd. The colony. The Marauders.

And that's why it's so lonely when the full moon comes. Because I've lost my pack. There's no one left to roam under the moon with, playing pranks and causing trouble.

Prongs was the first to go, of course. Brave, handsome Prongs. The athletic one. The one who found true love. The one who was betrayed by the one person he trusted with his life, and the lives of his wife and child. Poor Prongs.

Sirius was next, of course. Padfoot the prankster. Every girl's dream—girls always like the bad boys. It's really inevitable that he was the one who got blamed for the deaths of James and Lily. He was a Black, after all. It made sense that he'd join the Dark Lord, being what he was. At least… it made sense to those who didn't know him. Those who didn't know how much he hated his family and what it represented. Those who didn't know that he was as loyal as the dog that was his animagus form.

After Padfoot went to Azkaban, that only left two of us. Moony and me. But of course, Moony didn't know I was still alive. I couldn't let him know that. Moony was the clever one, you see. He would have figured out the truth. And even if he hadn't, the deatheaters in hiding would have done for me if they knew I was still alive. So I went into hiding, and Moony withdrew into his shell. It would be easier for him if he knew the truth, I think. But I won't be the one to tell him.

And that leaves me alone under the full moon. Peter Pettigrew. Wormtail. The traitor. You're wondering how I came to be in Gryffindor, aren't you? Gryffindor, home of the courageous. It's simple. I have courage, yes. Rat's courage. I'll do anything, brave anything, as long as I'm not alone.

It was hard when we got out of school. All my friends spread out. James got married. But somehow that only made the three of them closer. I got left out more and more. It felt like being abandoned. And then the Dark Lord came. He tortured me. I gave in to him. Because as long as I was with the Dark Lord, I wouldn't be alone. Rats get their courage from numbers, and here I was being offered the chance to join a colony that was so much larger than the Order that there was no comparison. The only catch was that I would have to serve a Master. And betray my friends.

It took him several weeks to wear me down. But the outcome was inevitable. He wouldn't have been able to take the others. There was no way he could have talked Moony or Padfoot into betraying Prongs. Padfoot blamed me for that. For what I'd done. But he didn't understand.

So, in the end, here I sit. Alone, by my own hand. Watching the full moon inch across the window, and listening to the snores and night sounds of the redheaded family I live with. Hiding, as I will be hiding for the rest of my life, most likely. Because of the one thing Prongs forgot when he made me his secret keeper. The thing that made me different from Padfoot or Moony. Rats live in colonies, yes. Rats like the company of others.

But rats are not loyal.

_And there you have Wormtail's innermost thoughts. I actually started out writing Moony's chapter, but I liked the flow better with it being Wormtail's. Tell me what you think. _

_And if anyone spots any spelling or grammar errors, please tell me. I don't beta these, because I'm enough of a grammar and spelling nazi that I catch most of them myself, but I do welcome constructive criticism._


	5. The Boy Who Lost His Toad

_As usual, this takes place during or after the fifth book. And insert disclaimer here . _

Somewhere underneath it all they still love me. That's what the gum wrappers are—their memories of loving me trying to break free. That's what I tell myself, anyway.

I have an entire wall papered with them. The wrappers, I mean. Gran tells me to throw them away, but I think she secretly understands, because she doesn't take them off the walls. The other day I caught her standing in my room staring at them and crying. She started to walk out like nothing had happened, but she changed her mind and wrapped her arms around me, and we both cried for awhile. I think I like Gran a lot more now. She's still a little scary, but she's scary because she's trying to protect me.

I need protecting. I'm a duffer. I still haven't figured out why I'm in Gryffindor instead of Hufflepuff. The sorting hat's insane, I think. Dumbledore told me about the prophecy, you know. He told me that I could have been the Boy Who Lived instead of Harry Potter.

I'm glad I'm not. I've always felt sorry for Harry. He lost his parents, and then when he first got to school everyone stared at him constantly. And then people started trying to kill him. If I were him, I'd be dead.

Sometimes I think I am dead. I'm the ignored one. No one ever notices me unless I'm doing something stupid or clumsy. Lots of people claim that, but for me it's really true. Except for Gran, nobody notices me unless I've lost Trevor, or melted my cauldron, or transfigured Seamus Finnegan's nose into a lavender grapefruit. I swear that only happened once, though. And McGonagall said I wasn't the first person to make that mistake while learning vanishing spells. It's really weird, though, after that happened Snape was even nastier to me than usual for a whole week, and Sinistra gave 100 points to Gryffindor because I could point out the moon…

But yeah, that's me. Neville Longbottom, The Boy Who Lost His Toad.

It's warm in the common room tonight. Everyone's sitting around talking happily. We just won a quidditch match. And by 'we' I mean Gryffindor. It's not like I had anything to do with the win. Merlin, can you imagine me on a broom? I can't even climb stairs without injuring myself.

I wonder if there's a potion that cures clumsiness. That'd be great. I'd go from being clumsy, socially inept Neville Longbottom to… well… graceful, socially inept Neville Longbottom. Maybe a gracefulness potion isn't such a good idea.

It's not as if I could brew it in the first place.

I should finish my homework. I got all the difficult stuff done with Hermione's help. Now it's just Herbology. Professor Sprout says I might have a real future in Herbology! I don't know why, but everything I plant seems to grow. It's always been that way for me. Gran says Mum was like that before… Yeah… anyway… homework.

_Eh, not one of my best. Kinda rambles a bit too much. But I can't really see Neville being as intense as some of the others. So… eh. Review. Gimme ideas on who else to do. I was working on a Lupin one, but… I can't get it quite right. However, tune in next time for Gloom, Doom, and Sherbert Lemons!_


	6. Gloom, Doom, and Sherbert Lemons

_Okay, I'm not sure if I said this in the last chapter, so I'll say it here. That incident with the grapefruit nose was borrowed from Devil Child Vorn's fic with permission._

_Disclaimer: Not mine. _

_Thanks to Vanna, for being my only review for the last chapter. This one's for you, Van. And also for MegIshiro, my only other reviewer for this fic, period._

Sherbet Lemons are definitive proof that there is good in the world. Voldemort and his deatheaters can terrorize everyone, but as long as I can eat a sherbet lemon—or what is it Americans call them… Ah, yes, Lemon drops! As long as I have one of those, I know the evil hasn't entirely won yet.

That sounds rather silly, doesn't it? I suppose it is, but in times of trouble, it's the little pleasant things that make the difference between hope and despair. For some it's the company of friends, for others it's music or poetry. For me, however, nothing reminds me that there's hope in the world quite so much as a sherbet lemon and a clean pair of socks.

Marvelous things, socks. They can keep your feet warm, or you can wear them over your hands as mittens. You can draw faces on them and use them as puppets. You can even make those clever little Muggle toys with them—sock monkeys, they're called. And if the socks are old, why you can keep things in them, or use them as pet toys. Or unravel them and knit a new pair of socks! They're also good for freeing house elves, as young Mr. Potter discovered.

Harry Potter, the boy who lived. A heavy title for such a small frame. Especially as he was when I left him with his aunt and uncle. I've always wondered if I did the right thing for Harry. I never realized… never knew that he'd be treated with so little love. I thought… Perhaps I didn't think. I've always looked for the best in people, and expected to get the best. And it usually works. Almost always, in fact. I've found very few exceptions to that rule. And the Dursleys are among them.

They didn't beat him, I know that. But they didn't love him. Which confuses me immensely. How can someone not love a child? Especially a child as intelligent and loveable as Harry was? Perhaps I should have put him with someone else. But he needed the protection of his mother's blood. If it hadn't been for that one thing, he'd have been out of Privet Drive faster than you can say quidditch. I wonder if he'll ever forgive me.

Why should he forgive me? I've done nothing all his life but keep secrets from him, and put his safety over his happiness. And really, which is more important in the end? Safety or happiness?

This is too much thinking for an old man. I did what I thought was right at the time, and I can't change that. Might-have-beens make my head hurt. I think I'll go find Minerva and see if I can lure her out of her office for a cup of tea. And maybe some sherbert lemons.

_Well, there you have it. Gloom, Doom, and Sherbert Lemons. I have the next chapter already written, even! However, this is my sixth chapter, and I only have three reviews. And one of those reviews was myself in a moment of insanity. I don't think I could possibly see my way clear to post another chapter until I have as many reviews as chapters. Hint Hint._


	7. Lilacs, Letters, and Lustrous Locks

_First off, thanks to all my lovely reviewers! You know I'm happy, because I loathe excessive punctuation. Snoopy Dances I actually have twice as many reviews as I do chapters! Well… provided you count the one I did while under the influence of insomnia._

_**I Don't Feel Like Telling You**: Or, as we like to think of you, He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, thank you for giving in to my demands and reviewing. I just hope it's random in a good way. There is actually method to my madness. The idea is that people don't always think and react like you'd expect them to. But you did know who was talking by the end of every chapter, correct?_

_**Michelle**: Wormtail's chapter originally started out as Moony's, but then I decided it would increase interest to add the slight twist there. As for the sadness, I took that as a challenge and ran with it. This chapter is the result._

_**Reyna: **True, but he had to have –some- redeeming qualities. As for Remus, didn't you know? "You always hurt the one you love." Huggles Remus Ooh, and everyone give cookies to Reyna for correcting Remus's French!_

**_Vanna, the ever-faithful:_** _I've read several fics where Remus was French, and liked the idea. Although in my opinion, he's lived away from France long enough to speak flawless English. As for that last paragraph… I'm afraid I was rather emo, and somehow Peter snuck into my fic. Filthy little rat. No idea how he got there. You're welcome about the slash, and I won't freeze, we've still got a fireplace._

**_Disclaimer: Everything here belongs to JK Rowling, and if you didn't already know that, I have three questions. 1) Why are you reading fanfics if you've never heard of the books? 2) What rock have you been living under for the past decade if you don't know Harry Potter belongs to JKR? And 3) How hard was it to get internet piped in under your rock?_**

I got my very own mirror yesterday! I know it's mine because it has my initials on it. G. L., surrounded by lilacs. How on earth did she know lilacs are my favorite flower? My favorite colour, too! Such a sweet woman, Gladys Gudgeon. Writes me every week. I'm famous, you know. Demmed if I know why, though.

It must be my looks, though. And now that I have a mirror, I can make sure I'm always looking my best for my admirers! I think I'll get some new pictures made of myself, too. I'm sure Gladys would be delighted. I should wear lilac robes in them. What fun I'll have autographing them! I'm really getting very good at this joined-up writing thing. I really must write these ideas down. I'm just brimming over with brilliant ideas, and if I don't jot them down somewhere I forget all about them.

Aha! Here comes the healer again. Whatzername. Carroll! Yes, that's it. Healer Cara Carroll. It's such a pretty name. Almost as nice as mine! She's going to ask me questions to see if I can remember things. I forget sometimes. But they're trying something new lately. Hip-noses, or something like that. Funny word for it, since it doesn't have anything to do with hips or noses.

My nose is perfect, mind you. Just the right size, and perfectly straight. A distinguished nose. And it draws attention to my eyes! Gladys says my eyes are like big blue pansies. It's the most darling thing I've ever heard. Except… I don't suppose anyone can tell me what pansies are, can they?

No matter. Healer Carroll wants me to look at the pendant and think about my earliest memory. There's… a flash of light. And noise. A loud bang. Then a face, hovering over mine. No, it's not my mother or father. At least… I don't think it is. It's a boy. I distinctly remember he had freckles, and was very dirty. And red hair. Then another boy shows up, and I think there's a girl. The second boy looks even worse than the first. That hair, honestly. I doubt he ever conditions. Then I realize we're in… somewhere. An odd sort of place. Hey! I remember saying that! I think the three of them live here! After that… flying!

Ooh! I've seen them since then! They came to visit me the other day. Mad for autographs they were. The black-haired one said I'd been a teacher, taught him everything he knew! That was right before Brody went away. Not that I minded. Brody was dull. Never even pretended to listen when I suggested he use moisturizer and vanishing cream. Would've made him look years younger.

What else do I remember? Something about… water. Lots of water… on the floor! And some people, sleeping, or frozen, or something. And that's all.

I'm always thoughtful after one of these sessions, trying to figure out what my bits of memory mean. I know I was a great wizard before the accident. Veronica Smethley says so. She doesn't write as often as Gladys does. But… there was something about destroying a lot of dark creatures. Yes. And books. They all say things about me writing books. I wish I remembered. From the way they all talk, I must be the savior of the wizarding world! That's an awfully big accomplishment. Saving the world and keeping my perfect hair!

Well, it's getting late, and I've dozens of pictures that need autographing before bedtime. Joined-up writing is so much fun! But I still want to know what pansies are… Anywho! Signing! G-i-l-d-e-r-o-y L-o-c-k-h-a-r-t, little flourish at the end... G-i-l-d-e-r-o-y…

_It's short. But happy! … Kinda. I seem to have trouble with happy stories. They come to me as easily as all the angsty ones, but I just couldn't seem to make them as long as the others. I'd better stop writing, though, or the word count for the author's notes will exceed that for the actual story. There will probably be an angsty update in a day or two._

_Oh, and since it worked so well last time, review or… I'll leave rabid nifflers chained to your doorstep!_


	8. Patterns

_**It's that time again. Time to thank the wonderful reviewers!**_

_**SunnyMoonlight: **Yeah, I do tend to write rather dark. Personal failing? But you do at least have Lockhart. And the chapter after this one should be on the lighter side. I'll do Snape as soon as I get a job and can afford to buy HBP. I hate being broke._

_**Vanna:** The first thing I'd end up doing if I got a mirror for my birthday would be to break it. Not on purpose, but because I'm so clumsy I make Tonks look like a ballerina._

_**Reyna: **Hehe. I thought you'd appreciate Lockhart. Smarmy git that he is. Oh, and he wants me to pass this on to you… Lemme find the note… Aha. "Dint yu know? I AM the coolst guy EVAH!" At least, I think that's what he said. His cursive is abysmal._

_**Misa: **I'm trying to avoid Snape and McGonagall until I can afford to buy and read HBP. I know a lot happens to effect them in that book, so I want that perspective before tackling them. I'm afraid these stories aren't too likely to connect up, though. They all bounce about in time and space, although I try not to make any of them conflict with one another._

**_Oooh, Today we have Wyrm's first attempt at a songfic. Well, not the first. The first was going to be Moony's chapter, but Wyrm, being Wyrm, was going to do the fic to The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S.Eliot. Meaning that halfway through, on the sixth page, Wyrm gave up. Although if anyone wants a copy of what was completed, email and one will be gladly provided. _**

_**Anyway, Harry Potter and co. belong to the wonderful JKR, and Patterns belongs to Paul Simon.**_

As usual, it was a quiet evening on Grimmauld Place. The full moon had been the night before, and the waning moon silvered the street. The sounds of a muggle radio punctuated the silence, the words carrying clearly in the still night. A man lay awake in his bed, and listened.

_The night sets softly_

_With the hush of falling leaves,_

I used to like the sound of falling leaves. Now… now they sound too much like dementors. All day and all night, that rustling-leaf sound. When it got loud, it meant one or more of them was coming closer. They seemed especially fascinated by me. It's because I was the only one in the wing who stayed almost sane… I heard someone walking past the house one morning in autumn, though, and was almost out the door with Remus's wand before I realized it was a human, and not THEM coming for me.

_Casting shivering shadows_

_On the houses through the trees,_

Not that everything doesn't cast shadows in this damn house. That's what it is, a house built out of shadows. Shadows. That's what I'm turning into, a shadow of myself, trapped in the house I grew up in and swore I'd never set foot in again.

_And the light from a street lamp_

_Paints a pattern on my wall, _

That's what we should do once it's cleaned out. Paint it. Gryffindor colors. Just to hear the old bitch scream. Doesn't have to be Gryffindor colors. Just anything bright and cheerful. Whitewash the walls, throw out all this heavy cursed furniture… Hell, paint the whole house white, inside and out! That'd get darling Mumsie's goat. The noble and most ancient house of Black, painted white. And it's not as if Dumbledore or anyone would mind. It's my house, after all, and I have to live here. Not as if I'm doing anything else useful.

_Like the pieces of a puzzle_

_Or a child's uneven scrawl._

Would the paint be enough, though? To make the house liveable? Lay the ghosts of Black? I want to live somewhere a child could live without having nightmares. An adult couldn't live here without nightmares. I can't, at least. I've lost track of how many times I've woken up in the middle of the night to cry on Remus's shoulder…

_Up a narrow flight of stairs_

_In a narrow little room,_

Knock out some walls… Who really needs a house with forty rooms?

_As I lie upon my bed_

_In the early evening gloom._

Because it's not as if I have anything better to do. I hate being useless. At least Moony's here with me. Asleep. Last night was hard on him.

_Impaled upon my wall_

_My eyes can dimly see_

A house elf! Wait, no, that's in the hallway.

_The pattern of my life_

_And the puzzle that is me._

The pattern of my life. Defiance, pain, hope, betrayal. Rinse. Repeat.

_From the moment of my birth_

_To the instant of my death,_

Sometimes I wonder if I haven't already died, and this is my Hell. But if I'm in Hell, Moony shouldn't be here. He's done nothing to deserve it. Same for Harry, and Hermione, and the Weasleys…

_There are patterns I must follow_

_Just as I must breathe each breath._

Patterns. I fought against them my entire life. Everything laid out for me perfectly, every moment of my life planned from infancy. Guess I showed them, didn't I? I wonder if Mum was twisted enough to be proud of me when I was sent to Azkaban. Nah, she probably had proof I was innocent, and didn't do anything to help me. Bitch. Bet she'd have adopted Wormtail if he hadn't managed to get Voldemort killed. Disgrace to dogs to call her a bitch…

_Like a rat in a maze_

_The path before me lies,_

Now I don't get to choose my pattern, and I can't even fight the one that's been chosen for me, because it's to protect me. But I'm not accomplishing anything here. I'm just running around in a maze with no exits…

_And the pattern never alters_

_Until the rat dies._

And may mine be the hand that kills him. Then I'll be free, and I can leave this house, haunted as it is by the ghosts of my past, and the life I was born to lead.

_And the pattern still remains_

_On the wall where darkness fell,_

The pattern always remains. It's always there to dictate what I should be, and am not, will not, can not ever be…

_And it's fitting that it should,_

_For in darkness I must dwell._

Darkness. I should rename the house. Darkness Manor. How… fitting.

_Like the color of my skin,_

_Or the day that I grow old,_

I used to believe I'd never grow old. Or grow up, as the case may be. And then James and Lily died, and I had to grow up…

_My life is made of patterns_

_That can scarcely be controlled._

**_Well, there it is. Padfoot, for those of you who somehow didn't guess. Nothing really new in this chapter. I mean, we all pretty much know how Sirius feels about life, the universe, and everything. I was just listening to Simon and Garfunkel, heard this song, and thought 'heeey…' Actually, a lot of Simon and Garfunkel seems to apply to Sirius. Obviously, this is another not-happy ficlet, but I did try to insert a little black humor here and there. Pleasedon'tkillmeforthebadpun! _**

**_For those of you who just can't get enough Wyrm, check out my other active story, The Boy Who Lived: Take Two, where Remus and Sirius raise Harry. I'm trying to alternate its updates with Internal Monologues updates. My one-shot 'Dangerous Beasts' also comes highly recommended by the incomparable Reyna. Oh, and lest I forget, the now-obligatory review-threat. Review, because I have a werewolf, and I'm not afraid to use him! (Giggles evilly and gets out the key to the fluffy handcuffs, heading for the bedroom.)_**


	9. Uncertainty

**_Been kinda neglecting Internal Monologues lately, haven't I? Sorry 'bout that. The problem was that I've been trying to write Arthur Weasley, and I can't. I've a mental block, or something. So, when in doubt, take a completely different direction! I'm not sure it needs saying, but there's just a hint of slashiness in this chapter. If you don't like it, I'm sure you can put your own interpretation on it. It's really quite mild. _**

_**And now it's time to thank my reviewers!**_

_**Sunny Moonlight: **An interesting suggestion. I shall certainly consider it, although part of the problem is that I'm not at all fond of Snape. You'll be happy to know that I'm really thinking about doing another Sirius chapter where he's happy. Or maybe a happy-Remus chapter. But of course, in my head those are one and the same. _

_**Emmaline: **This one isn't any less depressing than chapter 7, luv. Sorry. It is canon, though. And I'm glad you liked it!_

_**Vanna: **I've seen lots of different things called songfics, but they mostly seem to fall into two categories. The all-verse ones, and the ones like chapter 8 where the character is described in relation to a song. And I hope you do have that song, but that's mostly because I'm a Simon and Garfunkel fan._

_**Pre HBP, no spoilers. Once again, I do not own Harry Potter or any affiliated characters.**_

How long is forever? When does it end? When does childish anger turn into a lifelong grudge?

_Platform 9 ¾, a lonely boy dropped off by his parents to make his own way onto the train. Confused, somewhat frightened, but still a little hopeful. There were almost a thousand other kids here. Surely he could find a friend or two. His trunk was heavy and awkward, and he was just trying to figure out how to manhandle it up onto the train when a helpful pair of hands took the other end of the trunk and helped him lift it up. While the stranger easily lifted his own rather shabby trunk onto the train, the boy studied him._

_Thin, on the pale side, with light brown hair that had an odd greyish tinge to it. Sickly-looking, but obviously strong, if he could lift that trunk by himself with no apparent effort. A book stuck out of his pocket, and his robes were undoubtedly secondhand. The stranger seemed friendly, and the boy was just beginning to wonder if they could be friends when a hand was proffered, and the helpful stranger smiled and said, "My name's Remus Lupin. What's yours?"_

_The boy hesitated a moment, going through the mental list of names he was allowed to associate with. Yes! Lupin was on the list! Far down, but… he took the hand and smiled slightly. "Severus Snape."_

_Moments later they were separated by a flood of students boarding the train. The next time he saw Lupin he was talking and laughing with two black-haired boys, one of whom had an arm slung casually around the bookish lad's shoulder. Severus despised both of them immediately._

James Potter and Sirius Black. How I hated them. How I still hate them. I vowed I'd hate them forever, and never forgive them. But forever is so long, and they're both dead. And I'm so tired of hating…

I could never bring myself to hate Lupin. Not after the innumerable times he tried to moderate his friends' behavior, with more success than anyone outside their little circle would have suspected. Anyone, that is, who hadn't considered it a matter of utmost importance to know what Potter, Black, and Pettigrew were plotting, in order to avoid their pranks.

"_Just give it a rest, Padfoot. He can't help that his hair's greasy, any more than James can make his lie flat, or you can help being prettier than any girl in the castle." Severus, sitting motionless behind a bush from them, didn't need to look to know that Potter's hand had gone to his hair defensively, and Black had smiled smugly and batted his eyes. A muffled cry and laughter announced that someone had tackled Lupin. Probably Black, he was the most physical of the group._

"_Why Moony, I never knew you cared." The amused drawl confirmed Severus's suspicions as to the identity of the pouncer, although there was a strange note of underlying intent that puzzled the eavesdropper. "As I'm so pretty, why don't you give me a kiss, hmm?"_

"_Mmpfh… Sirius! Get off me!" A sound that might have been either a gasp or a sob, followed by a brief struggle, then footsteps fading off toward the castle. An awkward silence settled in after Lupin's exit, and lasted for several minutes before Potter finally broke it._

"_We'd better go check on him. And take him his books. C'mon." Parchment rustled, then more footsteps left. Severus waited for ten minutes, to give the boys time to either get to the castle or get distracted before he left his hiding place, only to find that Black was still there, and crying. Of all people in the world, he, Severus Snape, was witnessing Sirius Black in tears! They were remarkably quiet tears, though. No sniffling or sobs—his eyes weren't even red. Still, Severus was delighted. Here was a chance to torment his tormentor!_

"_Well, what have we here? Sirius Black, crying his eyes out. What's wrong, Black? Did you and Lupin have a lovers' quarrel?"_

_Silvery grey eyes snapped toward him, darkening like storm clouds with anger as they recognized the speaker, but in that brief moment Severus had seen pain there. Staggering, all-consuming, heart wrenching pain, so profound that Severus almost apologized. Almost turned and left out of respect to the despair in his enemy's eyes. But then the anger came, and with it the typical Black arrogance. "What do you want, Snivvelus?" _

"_What do I want? Oh, nothing at all. Just wondering what you see in Lupin. Surely you can do better. At least choose someone healthy to disappoint your fanclub with." The needling worked. He knew it had worked, because now he was pinned to a tree with his feet dangling in the air, and Black was growling at him, an insane glint in his eye. _

"_Better? Remus Lupin is a better man than you'll ever be. And he's not sick. He's special." Severus wasn't fairly certain he was a dead man, but he would go out with a bang._

"_Special, eh? Is that what they're calling it these days?" A hand closed around his throat, cutting off any further taunting. _

"_Don't believe me? If you really want to know how special Remus is, here's what you do. Tonight, go to the Whomping Willow and find the knot near it's base that's shaped like a dog's head…" _

I knew then that I shouldn't have gone. But I did anyway, and I saw Lupin transforming. And I pitied him. Then Potter of all people had to save me. He'd stolen the first person I'd ever wanted for a friend, he'd made certain that I could never have any friends by his constant tormenting, and then he had the absolute gall to go and save my life. I hated him, and he'd gone and put me in his debt. I vowed never to forgive him. I didn't realize then just how big a word 'never' is.

_It was burning again. Rastaban had said it would burn on and off for the first month or so. Severus had believed him, but hadn't expected the burning to be so painful. He'd learned, however, that it could be controlled. When he was feeling uncertain, it was worse. Right now, Severus was uncertain about the scar and what it meant. _

_It had seemed so simple at first. His mother having died during the school year, Severus had been sent to live with his mother's cousin Alsafi and her husband Thuban Lestrange. Their sons weren't much older than he, and had been popular in school. 'Twas only natural for Severus to imitate them. The meetings of their 'club' had appealed to his darker side, and he'd readily agreed to join them. _

_Then he started to realize exactly what was required of him. Last night he'd been involved in the torture of a muggle family. That was the straw that broke the camel's back. The sudden swift comprehension came that this group, these deatheaters, enjoyed the screams of the innocent children, and the futile attempt of their mother to defend them. Bellatrix Black had been practically orgasmic while torturing the youngest, a tiny girl with blonde curls and a cherub's face._

_Severus knew what he had to do, but he didn't know if he had the courage, and that was what had started the Dark Mark on his arm burning. Ironically, it was Sirius Black who started him out of bed heading for Dumbledore's office. A decision to confess or not to confess would stop the pain in his arm, but only one of those choices would end the memory of the conversation he'd overheard the other day. There was no way Severus would spend the rest of his life listening to his conscience speaking in Black's voice, saying 'not only is he a greasy dungeon-dwelling git, he's a coward to boot.'_

That was the longest walk of my life. That night Dumbledore recruited me as a double agent for the Order of the Phoenix. And when the end came, I wasn't even involved in the Dark Lord's downfall. Destroying Voldemort had become my purpose, my reason for being. And once again, Potter and his friends took what should have been mine. I'm a Slytherin, after all. Ambitious. What better way to gain power than to bring down the greatest enemy of the wizarding world?

And now… now. Now he's back, and still a Potter is between me and my dearest ambition. Odd… the Dark Mark on my arm is burning…

**_Hmm… wonder what Snape's indecisive about this time? This chapter was a bit of a challenge, as I don't like Snape. I despise him, in fact. But that's neither here nor there. The important thing is, I think I know who the next chapter's about! Huzzah!_**

_**Review or I'll lock you in a padded room with a tone-deaf would-be opera singer.**_


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